The Education of Sebastian & the Education of Caroline (104 page)

I headed inside and saw Yannis the bartender. He nodded at me and poured a whiskey without me even having to ask. I tipped it straight down.

“Suffit de laisser.”

He raised his eyebrows but pushed the bottle towards me.

After my third shot, I started to pull myself together, disgusted by being such a fucking pussy and running out.

Fuck, I used to be
good
at my job. You know, actually
cared
about it. Paris changed all that. My CO had hated me from day one. He tried to bully me and constantly belittled me. Then I found out he was a buddy of my old man. Figured. Bastard even got my promotion to Warrant Officer blocked. I’d fucking
earned
that promotion. So I decided if he wanted to screw around with me, I’d screw around with him—or rather, his wife. That was easy. Getting caught was harder because he was so fucking unobservant. She was definitely the brains in that marriage.

But he got the message eventually. Found his wife with her mouth wrapped around my dick. That was a good day. By that point I didn’t give a shit what happened to me. But it had got me here.

To her
.

I took another shot, wondering how I’d make it through the next 30 hours. Well, it was only 2PM—and I knew how the next 12 hours would be spent: just me and a close relative of my good friend Jack Daniel.

By 6PM I was well on my way to being completely wasted. I only knew it was later because the bar started filling up with office workers. They must have sensed I wasn’t in a friendly mood because they all gave me a wide berth.

I wondered what
she
was doing. She’d looked pretty cozy with that French journalist, Lebuin. Fucker was practically drooling over her, all smiles and Gallic fucking charm. It made me want to punch his guts out through his backbone.

I tried to think of something else, but every time I came back to the look of shock on her face when she saw me. Not pleasure—shock.

I emptied another shot down my throat, enjoying the increasing numbness that it gave me.

“May I sit?”

I looked up slowly. For a second I thought it was
her
—the long, chestnut colored hair was so familiar. I remembered that hair sweeping over my chest as we made love in the sand dunes. But this woman’s eyes were blue.

I shook my head to clear it, then waved at the seat.

“Merci.”

I grasped the bottle of whiskey as if I was afraid she’d steal it.

“You like to drink alone, perhaps?”

I shrugged, and she turned to Yannis to order herself a glass of white wine.

Yeah, buy your own drinks, baby. I’m not interested
.

I looked at her again. She was attractive, dressed in a sharp skirt suit, high heels, with long legs. For a moment I could imagine those legs wrapped around my waist.

She saw the direction of my gaze and smiled.

“Or perhaps you prefer some company? I’m Gabriella.”

She held out her hand and after a second’s hesitation, I shook it.

“Sebastian.”

“American?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“No, no. That makes me feel old. Please, you must call me Gabbi.” She paused. “So, why is a handsome young soldier drinking alone? It is either money or women. I do not think it is money.”

Her tone annoyed me, and I turned to glare at her.

“And why is an attractive woman talking to strange men in bars? It’s either business or pleasure. I don’t think it’s business.”

“Touché!” she said laughing lightly, then ran her hand over my thigh. “I am French, not Swiss. It is always pleasure with us—even in Geneva.”

She leaned forward and I caught the smell of her perfume. It was strong and musky—nothing like Caro. My stomach churned and I stood up suddenly, taking her by surprise.

“You’re right, mademoiselle. It is a woman. It’s always a woman—the same fucking woman.”

She rested her hand lightly on my arm. “Perhaps I can make you forget her?”

I laughed harshly. “Yeah, good luck with that. I’ve been trying for ten fucking years.”

I pushed past her, amused by the look of disappointment painted on her face. When I hit the fresh air outside, I nearly staggered.

Fuck, I was more wasted than I’d realized.

I could have hailed a cab, but I didn’t live far, so I wandered home, occasionally cannoning off lampposts that seemed to leap into my path. Goddamn if I wasn’t seeing double.

I don’t remember getting up the stairs or falling asleep fully dressed.

The alarm scared the fuck out of me when it went off at 5:30AM. I set it early so I could go for a run before whatever drudgery the US Marine Corps was doling out. But this morning there was no chance of that. I just about made it to the bathroom before I threw up.

I splashed some water on my face, which made absolutely no fucking difference and then drank straight from the tap.

I crawled back into bed for another two hours.

When I woke up for the second time, there’d been no miraculous cure—I was still hung-over as fuck, and the room stank of whiskey.

Revolted, I pulled off my rank uniform and stood under the tepid shower for as long as I could stand it.

After I’d shaved, and managed not to cut my own damn throat, I glared at my service uniform. It looked like I’d slept in it. Which I had, strangely enough. I had a clean khaki shirt, but there was no way I’d have time to get the pants and jacket dry-cleaned.

Sighing, I pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and went to beg use of the ironing board and iron from Madame Dubois: desperate times called for desperate measures.

She took one look at my pathetic condition and took pity on me.

“
Les hommes ne peuvent pas repasser!” she insisted.

I wasn’t going to argue if she was going to offer to iron my suit for me. When she’d finished I kissed her on the cheek to thank her.

“Vous êtes un garçon effronté,” she sniffed and waved me off.

Yeah, gran-mère was hot for me.

The second day of the training began much like the first—I was late, and Parsons was pissed. I’d eaten a roll of mints before I walked in, but I was pretty certain he could smell whiskey on my breath.

I tried to keep my eyes off of
her
, but it was an impossible task. After the first hour, I wanted to tear them out and use them in a pinball machine.

The first lecture was on how to spot a minefield. I’d heard it all before. Didn’t mean it wasn’t useful, but it wasn’t new material either.

Next up was my language section: an hour with Caro’s eyes focused on me. I didn’t know why I didn’t combust on the spot. Except she seemed embarrassed to look at me. How fucking ironic.

I went through my usual spiel for the Afghan tour: how to introduce yourself (differently for men and women), how to give your job title, the agency you worked for, and nationality. And I always threw in a useful passage from the Koran for emergencies.

This shit could save lives, so it really fucking pissed me off that Caro wasn’t paying attention. Shit, she could end up smeared all over a Kabul street if she didn’t take it in.

“Perhaps Ms. Venzi can answer that question,” I said, nearly choking on my tongue as it wrapped itself around her name.

“Excuse me? Um, what was the question?” she stammered.

Fuck, I couldn’t look at her—it was too much. I was only fucking human.

Shit! Shit! Shit!
What could I tell her that she might actually remember, that might actually be useful?

Inspiration struck.

“A typical answer to a question an Afghan can’t answer would be for him to say, ‘because the sky is blue and the sea is green’,” I said by rote, risking another glance at her.

She looked annoyed and my heart punched against my ribs.

I had to get out. I
needed
to get out.

I don’t remember anything about the last 45 minutes of the seminar. As soon as Parsons cleared his throat, signaling the end, I was out of there.

And then she spoke to me.

“May I have a word, please, Chief Hunter?”

I almost skidded to a halt, afraid to turn and look at her, afraid of what it was going to make me feel to look in her eyes again.

“I’m rather busy, Ms. Venzi,” I coughed out.

“Too busy to say ‘hello’?” she snapped.

God, she was so beautiful.

And then I realized I hadn’t answered her.

“Yes, I’m too busy for that,” and I ran.

Fucking pussy! Candy-ass chickenshit fucking pussy!

I couldn’t go back but I couldn’t kid myself anymore either. I wanted her. Badly. And maybe, if I had her one more time, I could stop thinking about her. Maybe if I fucked her hard, I could exorcise her ghost once and for all.

On impulse I stopped and bought some condoms from a small pharmacie. I got a semi just thinking about using them with her.

Jesus, just seeing her and I was suddenly 17 again.

For fuck’s sake. And how the hell was I going to make that fucking fantasy happen? I’d barely spoken to her for the last two days.

I needed to get her alone. I couldn’t do it—whatever ‘it’ was—with an audience. I needed to talk to her.

I wandered through Geneva, trying to work out what I was going to say to her; how I’d get to fuck her. We used to have this amazing chemistry. We’d just look at each other and get turned on. I wondered if it was still there.

My steps slowed as my thoughts grew heavier, remembering everything that has passed between us, the plans we’d made. Fuck, we’d talked about it all: living together, marriage, kids. I’d wanted it all with her—and I thought she’d wanted it with me.

I realized I’d stopped walking altogether and was standing outside a jewelers. One of those small, unassuming, family-run places that you could still find in that part of Geneva.

My eyes were drawn to a display and I found myself staring at the rings. One of them caught my attention—a smallish but pretty single diamond mount on a gold band. The breath left my body as I imagined how that would look on her small hand, with those delicate fingers that used to touch…

Fuck
. This was seriously fucked up. I need to walk away, fast. But I couldn’t. I walked inside and was soon talking to the sales assistant, an elderly man who looked like a gnome. And then he was showing me the ring and placing it in a
dark blue satin ring box, and I was handing over my credit card for €2000.

Back in the fresh air, I knew I’d lost my goddamn mind, but somehow I couldn’t care.

Eventually I went home and took another shower, then changed into civvies. I was going to go straight to her hotel, but I wimped out.

I went back to L’Antidote and started drinking.

There were so many things I wanted to say to her—and I had no fucking clue how to start. I had another drink, trying to calm the fuck down. Then another. And another.

When I’d finally got up the courage to talk to her, I headed towards the Place des Nations. Her hotel was nearby. For some reason, my body seemed disconnected from my feet. It took for fucking ever to get my ass going in the right direction. Weird.

Finally, I was there—standing in front of her door—knowing that she was just a few feet away from me.

I knocked three times.

There was a pause, followed by a scuffling sound, then her voice.

“Who is it?”

“Let me in, Caro.”

There was another pause—longer this time.

“What do you want, Sebastian?” she called through the door.

“Let me in. I need to talk to you.”

Fuck.
This wasn’t going how I’d planned. She needed to open the door for me to talk to her properly.

I banged on the door again.

“Caro!”

Slowly, the door opened. All she was wearing was a thin, silky robe.

My cock leapt to attention as my eyes drank her in.

“Caro.”

Christ it felt good to say her name.

“What do you want, Sebastian?”

No, not like this. I needed to be in the same room as her
. I pushed my way past her.
Fuck, she smelled good
. I was inside the room, but I wanted to be inside
her
.

“What are you doing?” she said, sharply.

She was so feisty. God, I loved that about her.

“Catching up with old friends,” I said, smiling at her.

“How did you find me?”

Seriously? Didn’t she know what I did?

“Military intelligence,” I said, tapping the side of my head.

I thought that was as funny as fuck.

While she closed the door, I took off my jacket and threw it onto the chair. There was nowhere else to sit, so I sat on the bed and hoped she’d take the hint.